Boys in Gilded Cages by Jarod Powell Page B

to speak
only tightened the ribbon around her finger. It wasn’t long until
she was leaving notes in his locker—cryptic notes, heavy on the
Catholic guilt, and decorated with glittery X-tian crosses that
made the pages stick together, signing it only with her initials
because she was too chicken shit to put her whole name. I can’t
remember exactly what she said in the notes, but her writing style
would later be copied by Daryl in notes to people he was obsessed
with for the brief time he could remember them. He was just as
crazy as Marcia, but less focused.
    Daryl’s parents never knew who threw him on
their porch step that night, so they had no opinion on the Cruz
family except they were Mexican (when they were actually Cuban),
and so were probably really good workers should Daryl’s dad ever
need to hire someone for real cheap. Marcia’s dad smelled trouble
and knew that his daughter would probably cause it with a
charismatic white boy she could play doctor with, and pamper like
she was his wet nurse. He knew she’d grow up to be a “fixer
upper”.
    Around the time the notes started, she and
her ugly friends started camping out in the weeds across the road
from Daryl’s house. They’d have binoculars and a pad of paper that
they said was to take notes but really ended up being a doodle
pad.
    They’d watch his house for about fifteen
minutes. He’d be gone or passed out—never present. When watching
became pointless, they’d gossip about random people at school they
never talk to, diet tips from pro-ana websites, and occasionally,
Daryl. But the only person really thinking about Daryl was
Marcia—her friends could give a shit, and really were kind of
freaked by him. They followed Marcia, though. Gross and dorky that
she was, she was also sort of a force of nature. Even the bimbos
that teased her, did with a vague reverence for her strength. There
was a fire in Marcia that smoldered quietly. The bimbos stoked it
just enough to keep it alive.
    She had an innate worldly knowledge. It was
not learned, as her Catholic-bred parents made sure she saw no
evil. It was psychically sought after, however.
    She knew what her pussy could be capable of
if she just lost a few pounds, and let puberty take its course. She
was born with the knowledge that people are stupid and easily
fooled by people like herself. What she lacked, that Daryl had, was
a pretty shell. What Daryl lacked, that Marcia had, was everything
else. She wanted to implant everything else into his chest and
watch it grow.
    Marcia walked up and down her county road
sometimes, on restless nights. Even though the gravel hurt her feet
and her sweat was overwhelming on typically muggy nights, she did
it, looking for ghosts or Daryl’s insides or UFO’s to take her on a
journey of probes, experiments and fortune telling. One time, she
ran into Daryl after whatever transaction he was completing at that
hour and after that she paced the road for a few hours every week,
but I’m sure their chance encounter had little to do with it,
because Marcia was always up to weird shit late at night—trying to
witness something the world would sleep through.
    Because of her innate worldly knowledge, she
had an inkling of what Daryl did, but had no proof and no concrete
narrative played out in her fat head. It was what she desperately
tried to piece together, but never could.
    Daryl floated around. That’s what she never
understood. In her mind, she was in the audience, and he was doing
performance art or something, in code, so only she got it. It was
so stupid.
    I saw what she saw in Daryl McAdams, but no
one else did.
    He did what Daryl does, in the semi-charming
way he does it, and that was his role, both in town and in his
whole life. Marcia had a girl-boner for him, therefore magic
surrounded him. He had rubies in his eyes, a diamond in his teeth,
and pearls out his ass.
    He was beautiful, but a scruffy,
donkey-dicked piece of trailer trash that would probably